“I’m Doing All The Work!”

I’m not really. I did, however, come out with this line during an impressively mature, grown-up, and actually very very civilised discussion on Monday night. Some might question the grown-up-ness of it, actually, but the thing is – THEY WEREN’T THERE! The road to Monday night was very long and windy, but to give it some contextual background I should say that ever since we got our Big News we’ve been on a mission to get our house up to standard (as neither of us were convinced of the fairness of bringing another human being to live amongst our level of dishevelled chaos). So, nearly every weekend of the last three months has been filled variously with the stripping of wallpaper, plastering of walls, painting of said walls, gardening, rubbish tipping; all your basic nightmare psstimes. And now the latest project: The Kitchen. Walls are being knocked down, RSJs being fitted, and doors are being bricked up ahead of a new kitchen being fitted. All of this work is being done by me, with the help of assorted tradesman family members.

Context established, then, Monday’s drama, in script form:

INT. NIGHT

At 7pm, after a long day of boring-yet-strenuous work, MAN pulls his car up outside his house, puts his key in the door and is first greeted by his DOG:

MAN: Hello girl.

DOG: Woof. WOOFWOOFWOOF…WOOF.Woof. (trans. Never mind “hello” – where have you been, and where do you get off leaving me like that? It’s been HOURS!)

MAN: I know honey – I missed you too.

Hearing the commotion WOMAN approaches the front door, wearing her coat and proffering a B&Q brochure:

WOMAN: Hiya! Come on, we need to go straight back out and buy worktops, and also to change these floor tiles you bought – I’ve decided I don’t like them.

MAN: I’m knackered. And I’m starving – can’t we do all that running around tomorrow night?

WOMAN: No. There’s a discount on, but it ends tonight. Come on, they close at 9. I’ll make it up to you and look after you when we get back – I’ll make you some supper.

The couple proceed to go to their local B&Q, only to find it doesn’t carry the full range of products needed for decision making. They subsequently travel to another, not so local B&Q, where they have better luck and are able to buy the things they need. Arriving home at 9pm MAN becomes slightly irritable, and when he realises that WOMAN (who’d had the day off work) hadn’t been to the supermarket to buy food, becomes almost apoplectic with self-pitying rage:

MAN: There’s no food in. Why didn’t you go to the shops?

WOMAN: I was busy, and what stopped you from going to the shops?

MAN: I was working! Like I have been seven days a-wek for the last three months. If I’m not at work, I’m working here. Would it have killed you to have sorted something out for me? And anyway, wasn’t I promised this before we left for B&Q?

WOMAN: (laughing) Are you being serious?

MAN: (not laughing) Totally. I can’t believe how selfish you’re being. It’s not like I’m expecting you to have my dinner ready when I get in, but you could have at least bought me something I could make myself.

WOMAN: You’ve lost the plot. And by the way, you had noticed I’m pregnant, and pretty knackered myself???

MAN: Oh don’t start on with that again. You’re pregnant, not sick – I’m the one doing all the work here!

And there you have it. “I’m the one doing all the work”. Any further detail is superfluous. Captured right there is the fact that in three months I appear to have turned into a badly written ‘cad’ off a depressing ITV relationship drama. Obviously I’m not proud of this behaviour; it makes me look like an idiot. Which I was, am, and will probably continue to be until long after this baby is born. I’m offering no excuse other than I was tired and irritable after a shitty day at work. But! the interesting thing for me – and the reason I’m writing about it – is that untilI I heard those words coming out of my mouth I hadn’t really thought about how the balance of activity has shifted at home. Those first few months of pregnancy, as the non-pregnt one, you’re constantly trying to make sure your partner isn’t stretching, or over-exerting herself. You end up doing much more of the general domestic housework, and then a load more of the running around fetching and carrying things. And of course, this is only fair. I know this. Which is why I was disappointed to find that in some way, maybe I’m resentful of it.

Maybe these feelings are common. Maybe not. And maybe none of this has anything to do with the pregnancy, and is just about me being tired on Monday night, and having a chauvinistic hissy fit because I couldn’t get any dinner – i.e. no latent subconscious resentment about my ‘lazy’ wife and what I expect was a much-needed duvet day. Either way, I’ve written about this as a reminder to myself to (as my friend Dave frequently says to me) “basically get some form of a grip on things”.

What’s In A Name…

It’s been well over a month. Why? No good reason. Partly because I’ve been a bit lazy, partly because of a fairly rubbish period at work. I did write something a few weeks back about how concerning I was finding the Comprehensive Spending Review, but something went wrong (technical difficulties = I was an idiot) and I lost about 1000 words that I didn’t have the heart to try to remember, so depressing was I finding the whole thing. And anyway, it was better commented upon by the brilliant Johann Hari in The Independent.

So! There’s currently – and this won’t surprise – much debate under our roof about what to call this little boy or girl when it arrives. With this comes a fairly mind-blowing process of elimination: there are the names that you like, which sound awful with your surname, and just don’t roll of the tongue; then there are those you like, but fear would be too much like hard work for the child once it gets to school age. For us, Jude (for a boy) is one such name. The idea that a handful of schoolkids would go around upsetting our little Jude by calling him “Judeeee” is just completely out of the question for us. I’m fully aware of how stupid that sounds, but there you have it, this is how it’s going right now – our rationale is being set by some imaginary 5-year olds. And there are even more considerations. What about ‘family’ names; or rather, the point when you find out that your wife HATES your dad’s name, coincidentally around about the same time that she finds out that you HATE her Mum’s name (even though in actual fact, you don’t – you think it’s lovely). Or the names that are already taken. I mean, there are only so many you can reasonably go with if you’re not a famous 1970s rock star, and your family and friends have already taken them, I find. There’s one name I’d quite like to use, but if I do, there’s a friend who’s really going to misjudge the affection I have for him. So, obviously, me being a male North Westerner in his 30s – that name is out.

It gets even more bewildering at the point where animals get involved. Our last dog, Jake died a year ago; and I’d love that name, and it does go with my surname but, like, am I really going to have a son named after my dead dog? Nah. Why I didn’t consider keeping the name in reserve when we bought the dog I’ll never know, though I suspect my priorities were a bit more shall we say interesting then. I discussed this considerable problem with a colleague a few days ago, and he told me the best story: when his wife was pregnant they as a couple were settled on either Jack for a boy, or Kate for a girl. Two weeks before the baby was due to arrive my colleagues’ dad bought a dog and called it…. Kate. When Son confronted Father about this he was told ‘it’s just a name I liked – I just kept hearing it, and thought it sounded nice for a dog’. To which Son replied ‘yes, you kept hearing me and your Daughter in-law say it. It’s our name!’. Father told Son to stop being daft, and to just still use the name – nobody was likely to confuse a baby and a dog. Son couldn’t get Father to see how wrong that was, and this resulted in a fraught final two weeks of the pregnancy, Son’s wife being “all hormones and excitable”, until thankfully a boy was born. I say “thankfully” because they were adamant on keeping the name Kate had it been a girl, and were debating keeping Grandad and his dog at a distance.

Anyway, having wrestled with all of the above madness, we’re settled on one boy and one girl name. This will probably change though…

Pesto & Paediatrics

We went to dinner with some friends on Saturday, one of whom – a new addition to our crowd – is a paediatric nurse at a high-profile hospital. We were breaking our news, so whilst me and my Significantly Better Half (she might be reading) were both conscious of not boring everybody senseless with too much “pregnancy” talk, much of the night”s conversation was always inevitably going to head in that direction. So it was great to be able to get some feedback and advice from an experienced professional.

Except it wasn’t. 

You see, what we actually got from our friend’s new girlfriend was a personal account of some of the headfuckingly terrifying things she’s witnessed go wrong. We’re not totally naive about these things, and there was too much said on the night to go into here, but as a little precis:

• There was the “feelgood” tale about the recently-born baby who’s scull had been fractured by what might allegedly have been some overly enthusiastic delivering*.
• There were the cautionary warnings about the health risks associated with a high percentage of IVF babies (our baby isn’t IVF, but still… upsetting).
• Oh and this little nugget: “which hospital are you going to? Oh, *there*.Well I mean they have do a pretty bad reputation. But! That’s where you should go, as it’s the best in the area”.

Yeah, cheers for that!

To be be fair, in the context of the whole evening, this was only about ten minutes worth of the discussion, and so not as depressing as it comes across on the page when extracted for emphasis. I don’t think it was her intention to upset or worry; just seems to me that being a part of that world means you have to be at least a bit hardened and clinical, and possibly a little less sensitive than a wuss like me was expecting. Anyway it worked as a cracking diversionary tactic to stop us indulging in too much baby talk. And some of it’ll no doubt come in handy as a nice little bit of conversational artillery for the next time my mum or sisters want to bend my ear about the whole thing.

*’Delivering’ being my verb of choice for now, but please bear with me – I’m sure to master all the precise medical lingo in time.

Smudge

Earlier today we went to the antenatal clinic for both our first meeting with the Midwife, and our first scan. My hopes were pretty simple; that the baby was alive, as healthy as could be expected, that its Mum was going to be OK, and that everything was… ‘normal’*. Thankfully the Midwife assured us all was fine, and that there was nothing to worry about. She then went on to spend an hour making us fill out forms whilst simultaneously draining blood from my wife’s arm, like a particularly efficient vampire. Still, we were happy, so that was OK.

As for the scan, that was also fine; and its much anticipated printout was pretty much as I’d expected it to be, going in. You see, I’ve been presented with dozens of these over the years, by excited parents-to-be, eager for me to acknowledge that the smudge in the photo has Mummy’s nose, or Daddy’s chin or Grandma’s forehead. I can never see it, but I’m not entirely horrible, so I always politely muster an an “oh yeah – there’s the head” or something equally vague. So now it was my turn (our turn) and what did I think when shown the screen by the sonographer? My first reaction was to ask him which way was up, and when he told me I concluded that it looked very much like a smudge. Of course my wife was all pleased, pointing out arms, eyes, and all kinds of other things I’m not even sure the foetus has yet. To me, it’s a smudge. But it is a smudge. And it’s alive. And it’s our little girl… or our little boy. Amazing, and profoundly moving.

Whilst all this was going on, Pope Benedict XVI was pitching up in Glasgow, and the media were all aflutter about the historic significance of the event – the details of which I won’t bother with (but can be found here), apart from to note that my Mum got all Catholic about it and started going on about it being a good omen for us. I really don’t see why; I remember when I was a little kid, going to his predecessor’s last gig in the UK, seeing the Pope mobile at close range and wondering what all the fuss was about an Ice Cream van with no ice cream on a sweltering hot day. It’s not for here, but my feelings on the church aren’t all that accepting (I suppose being the best word for it). However, there was a moment there, when the gel was on my wife’s stomach, before the Sonographer placed his equipment there - in the seconds before the scan – where I found myself praying to God. It goes against my logic, but there you have it. That’s what happened.

* University tutors completely ruin the word ‘normal’. Three years of them pulling you up on it, asking you to “unpack” it and explain it away, leaves you forever self-conscious about using it.

 

HORMONES!!!

There’s been a lot of crying this weekend. Her, not me. You might say that it’s too easy to write complex emotions off as “hormones”, but I think on reflection, honestly, with the balance of all things considered – it’s hormones. I can’t see any other reason why a fairly throwaway comment of mine about the amount of Chinese takeaway we wasted on Saturday night could lead to almost three hours of sobbing. I mean, she’s never shown that kind of emotional commitment to food of any kind before, so why would this uneaten Beef Chow Mein stir up such inner turmoil? Hormones. Definitely.

In other news, Everton lost 0-1 to Aston Villa today. Not an ideal start to the season.

 

Nine Months (and counting…)

Having very recently digested the fantastic news that my wife is pregnant, I thought it might be a nice idea to record some bits ‘n’ pieces of observation, opinion, rambles and musings on the change affected on my life over the coming months, up to (and maybe beyond) our due date in April 2011.

It’s very early on in the pregnancy, and obviously, there’s a lot could happen. That’s my one note of hesitancy in doing this, but really, as with most things, I think it’s important to stay positive. It’ll be interesting for me to look back on this later and consider what information made it here, and what didn’t.

All tagged under “Nine Months (and counting…)’

 

The wisdom of F. Scott Fitzgerald

“…the American Woman, aroused, stood over him; the clean-sweeping irrational temper that had broken the moral back of a race and made a nursery of a continent was too much for him.” From ‘Tender is the Night’, 1934

Scream

I don’t know how I came to be looking for copies of this mid-’80s comic at 1am on a work night, but having found its dedicated website, I am, literally, thrilled.

I can acutely remember buying this short-lived comic, and being really into it; savouring the really creepy stories for night time under-the-bedsheets-with-a-torch sessions (I was ten-years old!). Particularly I remember the fangs that came free with that first issue – it’s very likely that’s what drew me in.

There’s a full copy of issue 1 here, so enjoy – it’s “terror-iffic!”

(and is this not the best Editor’s note ever?)

US Sitcoms…

There’s an interesting debate going on over at The Word blog, about the quality of US sitcoms; they’re focussing mainly on Frasier and Seinfeld – it’s here…take a look.

As good an excuse as any to post a favourite scene from each:

Frasier

“I know all the symptoms I can expect to experience. I’m especially looking forward to something called the “munchies” stage. It’s where one enjoys bizarre food combinations. I’m thinking of pairing this Chilean sea bass with an aggressive Zinfandel!”

Seinfeld

Quotes…

“In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day”

F. Scott Fitzgerald